


Mutual Parasitism

by cloronet



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcoholism mention, Angst, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, but if those mentions make you uncomfortable you can skip the first few paragraphs there’s a break, eating disorder mention, first chapter they fight second chapter they make up, self harm mention, there’s nothing graphic or detailed tho, when debates go too far
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8192554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloronet/pseuds/cloronet
Summary: Enjolras is capable of being terrible, but it’s a lot more complicated than that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If non-graphic mentions of self harm, alcoholism, or eating disorders bother you, skip down to the *** break.

Grantaire doesn’t self-harm. He doesn’t take a blade to his skin; he doesn’t raise lighter nor heated metal to his flesh and feel it char.

Instead, Grantaire drinks from the moment he wakes to the moment he passes out. He drinks hard liquor in the morning, beer in the afternoon, and spirits at night. This is not to keep his ghosts away, no, he invites them into his inebriated brain and allows them to dance unabashedly around his skull. Firstly, the drinking is for pain. Secondly, the drinking is for misery. Thirdly, the drinking is to be free of it all.

Sometimes, many times, he replays Enjolras’s targeted insults over and over until they become his second voice. “You’re wasting our time, Grantaire.” “You believe in nothing.” “You’re a drunkard.” “You’re a cynic.” His morals are questionable; his existence is flawed and useless. The proclamations affirm every whisper of guilt and shame and self-doubt in his mind. They are the confirmations of God, his own personal commandments.

The alcohol is his razor; the words are his burn.

Enjolras doesn’t self-harm. He doesn’t take a blade to his skin; he doesn’t raise lighter nor heated metal to his flesh and feel it char.

Instead, Enjolras misses a meal a day, sometimes two, sometimes more. “For Patria,” he jokes when his friends express concern. “She sustains me in a way that food cannot.” He eats just enough for his pallor to be considered “marble” and not “ghostly.” He gets a macabre thrill from the dizziness that hits him when he stands too quickly. He shames himself by starving himself.

Sometimes he allows Grantaire to go on rants for too long. He listens to the words against his cause spoken so confidently and allows himself to flood with the self-doubt that he tries so hard to dam. He fights back, of course, but when he is in the mood for pain he lets it go on and on until finally it is too much and he shuts Grantaire down with petty insults. “Do you love nothing besides the brandy in your hand and the woman in your bed?” “You have nothing to offer but philosophy and banter.” “You are of no use for our cause.”

The starvation is his razor; the words are his burn.

 

***

 

Enjolras finds out about Grantaire’s scars while attending to his own. They are mid-debate, but it cannot truly be considered a debate when Enjolras gave up long ago. He absorbs every counter-argument Grantaire makes as an absolute truth, as an admonishment for trying, as a slap for doing it wrong. He is letting it go on for too long today, he realizes, as he notices Combeferre’s steady, concerned gaze in his direction. He is in no place to fight fairly, so instead he tears Grantaire down.

“Enough, Grantaire,” he says, and the two words alone with their authority and conviction prove their intent to the curly-haired artist, who stops instantly to stare, his mouth still half-open. He understands that this moment is over. “Our cause is one of many facets and nuances. There is no point in trying to dissuade me. You come here not as a friend, but as a devil’s advocate and a heckler.”

Something curious crosses Grantaire’s face, something between a sneer and shame. His mouth squirms and settles awkwardly between a forced smile and a flat line. “A heckler you call me, when you promote _liberté_ and _Révolution_! When you yourself serve as a heckler to King Louis-Philippe!”

“Don’t pretend that you care about the government, or my ways, or our cause. You care for nothing. You’re a passive bystander to your own existence.”

Enjolras should not be this cruel, he knows, but he is out of sorts and just wants to end this. He realizes his hurriedness was his mistake as he watches Grantaire’s eyes cloud over, his expression close off, and his countenance turn gloomy.

“A passive bystander to my own existence? Eloquent as ever, Enjolras, much better than the simple ‘cynic’ or the dismissing ‘drunkard.’ Tell me, what are the other ways in which I am a failure?” 

Their friends, who had been chatting quietly amongst themselves, have now gone silent. Grantaire laughs bitterly and looks up as if to recall something towards the back of his mind.

“I sleep around, far too frequently, and with questionable characters; I start fights in every bar I walk into; I stand for nothing?” He laughs again, and this time it sounds like the cry of a wounded animal. 

“Grantaire, that's enough,” Joly says. He reaches out for Grantaire's elbow, but Grantaire jerks it out of his reach. Grantaire's eyes are locked on Enjolras’, and Enjolras is spellbound.

“Tell me, fearless leader, god Apollo; how else have I wronged the human race?”

Enjolras does not reply. He can’t reply, not when his words from weeks, months ago are being thrown in his face. He only vaguely remembers making some of these arguments, but here Grantaire presents them as though they’re preserved works of art, something studied and regularly attended to. 

His friends must think he’s spending his silence lining up for the kill, because Combeferre and Courfeyrac both take hold of his shoulders as if to keep him from lashing out. “Let him go,” Combeferre murmurs, gentle yet commanding, only serving to remind Enjolras of the way he snapped at Grantaire only moments before.

Grantaire must be broken, Enjolras thinks, because as they stare at each other, chests heaving, hearts beating in tandem, there is no rebuttal. No witty quip. Grantaire doesn’t joke that he’s silenced God. Rather he stands transfixed, eyes shining, for a few moments more before slowly dropping his gaze and exiting the room.

There is silence until Courfeyrac speaks.

“Is it just me or did that escalate more than usual?”

Enjolras looks down and shakes his head, still stunned by Grantaire’s display. The way Grantaire could recall things Enjolras had said that he himself could no longer remember; the way he recited it with a paradoxical combination of emotionlessness, pain, and spite; it reminds him of his own habit of keeping Grantaire’s words as a tool for self-destruction. Perhaps, he thinks, they are not too unalike.

“Are you okay, Enjolras?” Combeferre says, turning Enjolras to face him, but Enjolras is pulling himself away.

“I have to go,” he says, not looking around the room, at the faces of his friends, at the faces of people who haven’t the slightest idea of the shame and fear and regret coursing through him.

“Enjolras, don’t terrorize Grantaire any more than you already-”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Enjolras says, already free of his friend’s grasp, already out of the room and down the stairs and out the door into the street.

It is late and the streetlights are dim, but he can see a man hustling away into the darkness. “Grantaire!” he calls, and the man hesitates for a moment, not turning around, before continuing on again. Enjolras huffs and his breath mists out before him. “Grantaire, wait!”

Grantaire does not wait, but Enjolras runs to catch up to him.

“Grantaire, please, let me-”

In a second Grantaire rounds on him, and the pair are standing almost nose-to-nose. Enjolras fully expects Grantaire to glare until Enjolras burns and to yell until he’s sliced open, but instead Grantaire's eyes are brimming with tears and his voice is gentler than a wisp of summer wind.

“What is it, Enjolras?”

These words, words that should have been commonplace, that should have felt like everything was normal and comfortable and fine only underscored the fact that everything was wrong. Grantaire was drowning in pain wrought by Enjolras’ hand and yet he was willing to take more if it was what Enjolras wanted. And Enjolras understood him, understood the willingness for pain, the desire for it.

Enjolras saw his suffering mirrored in Grantaire and felt the most connected to someone since he had first found his love for Patria.

The feeling was overwhelming. His fingers tingled; his heart raced; his mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts but the overwhelming one was SHELTER: _here I’ve found understanding here I’ve found comradery here I’ve found support here I’ve found love here I’ve found HOME._

And Enjolras knows his friends love him, and that they would support him, and that they would help him if he chose to open up, but here with Grantaire he wouldn’t have to explain himself. Grantaire would know exactly what he was going through, exactly what to say, exactly how to feel.

Enjolras pulls Grantaire into a hug, their bodies melding together like they had meant to be this way all along. Grantaire tenses only for a moment before relaxing into the natural intimacy of the embrace. His arms wrap timidly around Enjolras, and his mouth is close enough to Enjolras’ ear that when he whispers, Enjolras can hear him as clear as if he had spoken in his mind.

“What is it, Enjolras?”

Tears fill Enjolras’ eyes.

“We will help each other.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I just posted chapter 2! Thank you to everyone who read and commented that they wanted to see the comfort chapter :)
> 
>  
> 
> At the moment this is a oneshot, but I'm also thinking about adding a comfort chapter to help with all the hurt. I could definitely be persuaded to write it if anyone is interested!
> 
> Also I like to write in complicated verb tenses just to torture myself so I apologize for any grammatical errors.
> 
> I’m on [tumblr](http://moneyhighschool.tumblr.com/), say hi!  
> You can also read this story on tumblr [here](http://moneyhighschool.tumblr.com/post/151265335409/mutual-parasitism)


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire does not want to break their embrace, but Enjolras’ choked voice alarms him. Slowly he pulls away, holding Enjolras out at arm's length to inspect his face. Enjolras’ eyes, blue with startlingly clear whites that Grantaire sees in his sleep, are flooded with tears, and the whites are struck with red. He did not know that Patria could cry.

A gust of wind blows over the pair, and the chill causes Enjolras to shiver.

“Let’s talk somewhere else,” Grantaire suggests. Enjolras nods and swallows thickly, eyelids flickering quickly in attempt to call back his tears.

“My apartment…” Enjolras says, struggling to keep his voice steady, “Combeferre and Courfeyrac—”

“We’ll go to mine,” Grantaire says. “We won’t be interrupted there.”

Enjolras nods again. How quickly Grantaire can already read his mind, predict what he is going to say. Grantaire still has his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders, and when Enjolras glances at them Grantaire quickly withdraws, shoving his fists deep into his pockets. “Follow me, fearless leader.”

Their walk takes Enjolras down a path he has never been, into a borough infamous for crime and squalor. He had never thought about where Grantaire lived; it is a tiny detail that, at the time, Enjolras found inconsequential, unnecessary to learn, but now he wished he had known sooner. Grantaire walks two paces ahead of him, neck bent forward to stare at the ground, silent. For the first time, Enjolras notes the unruly state of Grantaire’s hair, the thin layer of grime on his neck, and the frayed threads loosing themselves from his jacket. Sure, he had known that Grantaire was not rich, but he hadn’t realized the state he had been living in.

The pair approaches a slanted brick building with a front door that appears to be off its hinges. “Careful with that,” Grantaire says, confirming Enjolras’ suspicions as he carefully removes the door from the frame. Noticing Enjolras’ expression, he adds, “The landlord won’t fix it.”

“This is his property and you’re his paying tenant, it’s only right that he repair the front door!”

Grantaire laughs, not unkindly, but in the way he sometimes laughs when Enjolras accuses him of being drunk. “The landlord lives five blocks away. He still gets my money and he knows I’m not going anywhere, so he doesn’t give a shit.” As Enjolras steps inside, he places the door back into the doorframe. “I’m upstairs.”

They pass by a door on their way to the stairs, which are rickety and feel as though they will crumble beneath Enjolras’ feet. They ascend the stairs and at the first door, labelled 611, Grantaire produces a key and unlocks the door, which he then has to ram his shoulder against a few times before it swings open.

The doorway is incredibly narrow. Grantaire ushers Enjolras inside ahead of him, and Enjolras has to enter shoulder first in order to fit through the frame. Grantaire tries his best to shut the door quietly behind them, but the level of the building is uneven and the door sticks in the frame, so he has to shove it closed with a small _thump_. Enjolras looks around the cramped living room, noting the liquor bottles littered on the floor along with assorted art supplies and canvases both completed and half-finished. Electing to ignore the bottles, Enjolras says, “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

Grantaire scoffs. “A con artist, perhaps.”

Enjolras takes a second look at the canvases. The art styles are varied, but the use of color is striking and he cannot help but think that the palette is patriotic. “They’re stunning,” he says, and means it.

Grantaire ducks his head by way of reply and tosses a dirty shirt off of the couch before sitting down. “I would offer you food, but I have none.”

The mention of food reminds Enjolras of what brought him here in the first place, and his stomach churns with anxiety. “Thank you for allowing me to come over,” he says, sitting down on the other end of the couch.

Grantaire nods. Despite the unusual nature of the request, Grantaire would have done, has done, and will always do anything for Enjolras. Nevertheless, he can’t help but be unnerved by the sight of Enjolras in his home, on his couch, looking at him with a depth in his eyes that makes him seem as though he is searching for something. Grantaire has never seen him like this before; if he didn’t know better, he would say Enjolras looks hesitant, unsure. But certainly Enjolras has never been either of those things.

Then what can he make of what Enjolras said? _We will help each other._ His voice plays back again and again, in a fashion Grantaire is not unfamiliar to – though the positivity of the phrase is new. What could Grantaire possibly help Enjolras with? Why would Enjolras want his help to begin with? Enjolras thinks little of him, Grantaire knows, both in that he doesn’t think highly of him as well as that he spares little thought for the immoral cynic. Grantaire cannot fathom a world in which he could be of any assistance to a god such as he.

But Enjolras is here anyway, in his apartment, sitting feet away from him, looking at him in a way that is half expectant and half trepidant, and he seems, for not the first time this evening, at a loss for words. And since Grantaire is not one for uncomfortable conversations nor for expressing emotions, he elects to ignore the situation that brought them here.

“So, what brings you to my humble home? Certainly not the ambiance, though you do grow fond of the rats after a while.”

Enjolras considers a few potential replies, but all of them seem to be demeaning at worst or superior at best, so he decides against a comment on Grantaire’s living situation. He doesn’t want to say anything to hurt Grantaire, even in the slightest, ever again – heaven knows he has said more than enough for a lifetime. He came here for a reason: to confide in Grantaire. That’s what he must do.

“You call me fearless, but that isn’t true.” Grantaire is silent, his expression patient and open, inviting Enjolras to continue. He has never spoken these words aloud – not to Courfeyrac, not to Combeferre, not even to himself – but something about Grantaire gives him the feeling that he could say anything in this moment and not be criticized. He continues slowly. “I fear that the People will not stand with us at the barricade. I fear that France shall never be free. I…” Enjolras looks away. “I fear death.”

Death. A thing Enjolras fears and invites in spades. It's ironic, his fear of death, given his inclination for self-destructive behavior. His stomach pangs in retaliation, as though reprimanding him for his sins.

Grantaire hardly hesitates before replying. “Heaven may call for its lost angel but you will not heed the cry. Do not fear death. Death should cower at your feet.”

Enjolras cannot ignore the allusion to holiness, yet another reminder that he is weaker than the vision others hold of him. “Death fears no one.”

“Then you must become Death.”

“You must not believe anything I’m saying,” Enjolras says harshly. This seems ridiculous, suddenly, like the dreams that feel real while you sleep but outrageous once you wake. “You think that I'm perfect.”

“Not for the first time in your life you're wrong, Enjolras,” Grantaire says.

“You liken me to marble.”

“Marble has its blemishes.”

“You call me Apollo.”

“Perhaps you are not a god, but you carry his bow and arrows. You fight for France and protect her people,” Grantaire says gently, a manner of speaking which Enjolras thought impossible of him. Enjolras finally looks up, and he sees that Grantaire's eyes are again brimming with tears. “If only I had known how much my words hurt you. I would take it all back if I could.”

A stabbing pain strikes through Enjolras’ heart, and he takes Grantaire's hands in his. Grantaire's eyes shoot down to the touch as Enjolras speaks.

“It's no more your fault than mine. I goaded you. One cannot insult a man so frequently and expect him to not fight back.”

Grantaire looks up again and his eyes are gentle on Enjolras’ – firm with intent, yes, but mixed with a note of love that Enjolras is beginning to understand. He realizes that he wants to – needs to – confide his secret in Grantaire. Grantaire would understand. Grantaire would know what to say.

However, try as he may, Enjolras can not admit to his failure. Yes, it's failure that Enjolras fears; it is a failure to care for his own body, and how may he care for France if he can't even care for himself? This is why he has never told his secret to a single soul; he cannot bear the weight of the truth that he is not a good enough leader for his friends or for his country.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs, and Enjolras snaps out of his anxious thoughts. There's something in Grantaire's voice that brings Enjolras both comfort and strength in equal measure. His tone is as soft as that of a mother's lullaby, soothing and reassuring.

Enjolras steels himself, looks away from Grantaire once more; he can't bring himself to look him in the eye. It feels as though his body is physically rejecting the words, shunning the admission of guilt. He opens his mouth.

“Sometimes I starve myself.”

It's harder to say than Enjolras expects, but once it’s out it feels as though he’s purged. Irrationally, he expects Grantaire to gasp, to stare with mouth agape, to yell, to shame him for what he has done to himself.

Grantaire does none of these things.

Instead, Grantaire nods – not as a presumption of understanding, but as an acknowledgement of comradery. “And I drink for every meal of the day. Different poisons, similar goals, I think.”

Enjolras studies Grantaire’s expression, looking for anything that betrays disgust or disappointment, but none of that is there. All Enjolras sees is compassion.

Grantaire hesitates for the first time in the conversation. His bushy eyebrows knit together briefly, but his features smooth before he speaks. “Enjolras, do you think your life matters?”

Enjolras’ breath catches in his throat, unprepared for the question. He looks away, something akin to shame heating the tips of his ears. Does he, Enjolras, the individual, matter? No. What matters is the spirit of _liberté_ and _Révolution_ , not the bodies of its servants. “Our lives alone count for nothing,” he says.

Grantaire doesn’t respond immediately. Enjolras looks up, surprised to see that tears have returned to Grantaire’s eyes. In retrospect, he thinks, perhaps this was not the best thing to say to someone who suffers from issues of self worth, but as he opens his mouth to explain himself Grantaire speaks.

“You matter, Enjolras,” he says, his voice firm despite the tears pooling in his eyes. “Where would France be without you? She would be voiceless, suffering.”

“She would have found her voice through another–”

“Where would your _friends_ be without you?” Grantaire interrupts as though Enjolras hadn’t spoken. There’s an edge to his voice similar to the tone he adopts in their debates – hard and righteous. “You speak so often of unity and of sharing a common blood for the cause, but how can you say those things and doubt that you are the stitch that brings them all together?”

“Someone else would have risen to fight, I am not the sole unifier of the revolution–”

“Where would _I_ be without you?”

Grantaire practically shouts the sentence, the speed at which he speaks making it sound as though he had to force it out from the bottom of his throat. For what seems like the tenth time that day, Enjolras has no reply. Does he really matter that much to Grantaire? How can that be so, when, by all accounts, the majority of their interactions are coarse and argumentative? When Enjolras consistently shuts Grantaire down with insults? When Enjolras uses their debates to sharpen his proverbial sword, when every point he makes is target practice?

And yet tears are running down Grantaire’s cheeks, and his face is red – perhaps from shame, perhaps from anger, perhaps from embarrassment. He tries to pull his hands free from Enjolras’, but Enjolras holds his hands even tighter.

“And where would _I_ be without _you_?” Enjolras says, having not considered the question until this very moment but realizing, now, that the answer is more significant than he ever could have imagined. Grantaire, the unrelenting cynic, the one always challenging Enjolras and forcing him to consider views outside of his own; _of course_ Grantaire matters to Enjolras, more so than he ever would have thought.

“And where would our friends be without you?” Enjolras says, thinking of Grantaire’s kindness to Jehan and his brotherhood with Bahorel, of Grantaire’s amiability with their friends, of the way he makes them laugh and feel at ease.

“And where would France be without you?” Without Grantaire to challenge Enjolras, to force him to think and reconsider and vary himself, France would not have as ardent a leader as she has in Enjolras. And while he has never considered it until right this moment, sitting across from Grantaire, he realizes: “Without you, Grantaire, I would not be me.”

Enjolras hadn’t noted Grantaire’s expression since his first reply, his thoughts too sudden and deep and revelational, but now he looks at Grantaire and sees shock staring back at him. Grantaire is motionless, even his tears ceasing to fall and settling back into pools in his eyes.

“You are my second half, and I've realized I do not know much about you,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire swallows thickly, blinking his eyes rapidly and forcing a heavy breath out through his nostrils. “There isn't much to know.”

“Nonsense. I have spent so much of our time together arguing with you and not enough time listening. Tell me your story.”

“I have no stories other than yesterday's last call.”

Grantaire’s lack of self worth agonizes Enjolras. He decides that he must make sure Grantaire sees his own value; he must find Grantaire a reason to live.

“Tell me something you believe in.”

“As you've said, I believe in nothing.”

Again, Enjolras’ words come back to haunt him. He is ashamed of his past behavior, wishes he could take every moment of it back, if only to spare himself from the look of pain that crosses Grantaire’s face when he repeats Enjolras’ words. “Every man believes in something. I was a fool and a hypocrite for taking you as an anomaly. Tell me one thing, anything, that you believe in.”

Grantaire hesitates. Starvation and doubt are Enjolras’ biggest secrets, but the answer to Enjolras’ question would expose the secret Grantaire has spent most of his energy to hide. If Grantaire confides this in Enjolras, their relationship can never be the same.

Then again, today Enjolras has shown a new side of himself to Grantaire, and Grantaire thinks that maybe everything has changed already.

He replies.

“I believe in you.”

 

***

 

Months pass. Les Amis notice the tight bond that manifests itself so quickly, so surely, so steadfastly between the two.

They still debate during their meetings, but at home Enjolras will whisper assurances into the shell of Grantaire’s ear that he has so much more value than he gives himself credit for, and Grantaire will remind Enjolras of his value to the cause, to their friends, and to him.

Enjolras eats a little bit more. Grantaire drinks a little bit less.

 

***

 

When Grantaire asks _permets tu_ and the rifles take aim their way he is not asking permission to die for the cause, but permission to join Enjolras in the next life.

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said in October that I was working on a comfort chapter? It's _basically_ still October, right? I hope everyone who asked for this enjoys it, and thank you to everyone else who left kudos and comments!! It means a lot to me :)
> 
> I’m on [tumblr](http://moneyhighschool.tumblr.com/), say hi!  
> You can also read this story on tumblr [here](http://moneyhighschool.tumblr.com/post/159058078009/mutual-parasitism-chapter-2)


End file.
